


summer's dance

by erebones



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Crushes, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Haunting, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Missing Scene, Other, Pining, Smoking, Spooky, fantasy marijuana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 14:03:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17920202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Fjord is having a hard time letting Molly go.





	summer's dance

**Author's Note:**

> This is a really weird fic for me. I started it months ago, as you can probably tell, and gave it up because I didn't know where it was going. I rediscovered it recently and decided to finish it off, mostly because I couldn't stop thinking about Fjord's little curiosity crush on Molly. It fits in the space between the party's return to Zadash and Fjord's little solo trip south. Not beta'ed, just roughly polished up and sent off into the world by a very bemused rache.

There’s so much blood. Hot and sticky on Fjord’s cheek and the bare length of his right arm, soaking into the ground until the earth is black and soft to the touch. Summer’s Dance is crimson with it. Fjord watches as it runs off the blade in a bright swathe, dyeing the saltwater poppy-red with gore until finally, after long minutes, the water runs clean.

Dry, the blade glints a strange gilt-steel color in the low light of evening. As Fjord lifts it in salute, the dying sun catches off its edge, blood-red and greedy; for a moment the shifting of the blade seems to refract it, reflect the sinking orb in twain, and it’s as if two eyes are staring back at him from the falchion’s depths.

And then it’s gone. Fjord flicks his wrist, and the falchion is swallowed up into nothing, leaving him standing in the field of battle still bloodied and raw. His hip aches where a kobold spear punctured his armor. He limps away from the final kill to where the other gather on the fringes.

Jester and Caduceus are already hard at work. Beau had been knocked out for a minute there, and she claims their attention first, bitching indistinctly as Caduceus cradles her head in his enormous hands. Jester fusses over Nott, just because she can. But he can feel their eyes on him regardless, feels the prickle of their regard crawling down his spine like ants. He brushes them away and lowers himself stiffly to an outcropping of rock to wait his turn.

It’s Caleb who comes to him first, strangely. The wizard is bedraggled, sweaty and soiled but unbloodied—he carries his shoulders a little higher than he used to. He braces the sole of his boot on a nearby stretch of bare rock and leans forward on his knee to make eye contact.

“Fjord.”

He flinches, forces himself awake. His hands, where they droop between his knees, are loosely curled into bloodstained fists. He has vague memories of tearing into an enemy’s throat with his bare claws, sending witch bolt straight into its gullet, and his stomach turns a little.

“Fjord,” Caleb says again. He does not reach out, maintains his distance, but the command in his voice is impossible to deny.

“Yeah. I’m here.” He lifts his head and tries not to startle when Caleb reaches out and touches the side of his jaw. “What—”

“You’ve got blood all over you,” Caleb says calmly, unbothered. Only the slightest rumple between his fair blond brows betrays his worry. “Are you badly injured?”

“Most of it… isn’t mine,” Fjord says between breaths. He feels at his own hip, wincing at the tender ache where the meat of his flank was punctured. “I’m a little hurt, but I’ll live.”

“Let Caduceus have a look at you, at least.” Satisfied that Fjord isn’t going to keel over, or fly into another rage, Caleb seats himself on the lower outcropping and settles in for one of his strange upright naps, chin tucked to chest and hands folded beneath each opposite arm to keep them warm. Fjord stays where he is, eyes drifting shut again. Caduceus will find his way to him eventually.

And he does. The firbolg is still a mystery to him, still swirling at the edges of their tattered group like specks of oil trying to mix with water. Still, he seems largely unbothered by everything, quietly persistent, and so Fjord isn’t surprised when Caduceus kneels before him and reaches out without fear.

(It occurs to him, suddenly, what he’s done, what he’s wrought—the distance he has manufactured between himself and the others. He only wanted to keep them safe. He saw Beau fall, and blood filled his eyes. He hates himself a little bit for it, but he couldn’t have done anything else.)

“You’re better off than I thought you’d be,” Caduceus says in a friendly, even tone. His voice is very low, rumbling deep in Fjord’s bones. A counterpoint to the hum of healing magic that knits together torn flesh, that soothes bruised muscles. No amount of clerical spellwork is going to rinse the blood from Fjord’s skin, but beneath the weft of war he feels himself becoming whole again. Physically, at least. “That was quite a display, Mr. Fjord.”

“Just,” Fjord sighs, ribs creaking back into place, “trying to keep everyone safe.”

“An admirable job you made of it.”

The healing is finished, but Caduceus still looms over him, large hands resting lightly on Fjord’s shoulders. The firbolg’s nostrils flare and exhale hot, grassy breath, and the musty, dead-leaf smell envelopes Fjord in warmth and comfort. Like a cup of tea steaming on a cold day. A little bit of the twisty, upset-stomach feeling fades and Caduceus moves away, apparently satisfied.

“Is everyone else okay?” Fjord asks, eyes falling shut. “I don’t mean—are they…”

“They’ll be all right,” Caleb says gruffly. “Take a few minutes, both of you. Then we should move on. Take our prize back to the city.”

Their prize. Fjord had forgotten the entire purpose of their trip. A small excursion outside Zadash’s walls, a little something to test their mettle after so long on the road. It was the first time some of them had fought by Caduceus’ side. The first time Fjord had shed blood since… since.

“Did we get it?” Fjord asks, still too tired and cold to see for himself.

“Nott got it off the leader.” Caleb rustles where he sits, like he’s pulling his coat more firmly about himself. “We’ll get our money’s worth, that’s for sure.”

Caduceus wanders off to scavenge the field of battle, but Caleb remains at his side as the sun disappears behind the barren trees and a fine grey chill settles over the countryside. They’re a few hours’ trek outside the city walls—Fjord isn’t looking forward to the walk, even with his wounds tended to, but a hike with a bed and a hot meal at the end of it are more appealing than setting up camp at the edge of these brackish, ice-rimed moors.

Mist blows in over the hills, draping the world in soft white as the Might Nein gather themselves together. It hurts to stand up straight after sitting for so long, his muscles locking tight together, but he grits his teeth and refuses to betray the pain. The arrival of Beauregard distracts him from it—she’s leaning heavily on her staff, but upright, eyes burning as she shoulders into place at his side at the end of the line.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, her words nearly masked by the gritty punch of their boots through the frosty grass.

“Yes I did,” Fjord says immediately.

“Hmph.” She looks askance at him and away again, almost perturbed by his vehemence. “Is that an orc thing, then? What just went down?”

“You mean the…” He can hardly bring himself to say it. Can hardly bring himself to _remember_ it, though that’s hardly his fault. The details are a little fuzzy. “Going a little insane.”

“I was going to say _berserk_ , but insane works.”

“Ha. Yeah. I guess, uh… I guess so? Maybe? It’s never really happened before.” He looks down at himself, at the sticky gore still plastered to his chestplate and streaking his arms. It’s cold enough that he should need a cloak, but the heat of battle still thrums faintly through his veins, lifting sweat to the surface of his skin before being whisked away by the chilly air of early Quen’pillar. “I saw you go down, and something in me just… snapped.”

“It’s a handy trick,” Beau says. Her voice is strangely flat and unaffected, like she’s talking about the weather. “Seems dangerous, though, so maybe save it for emergencies?”

“That’s the idea,” Fjord says slowly. His fingers close around nothing, missing the phantom feel of a hilt against his palm. The golden glow of Summer’s Dance flickers in his mind’s eye, and the bloody smear of two eyes. He shudders and walks on. It was just a figment of his imagination. Nothing to worry his head over.

Beau walks on a little, nudging up to Caduceus’ elbow for a word, but Fjord isn’t left alone for long. Her foray was like a signal to the others that he was finally safe to approach. Nott is first, flitting to his side like a shadow. Her eyes are flat and piercing, as yellow as the sliver of moon beginning to rise beyond the distant city’s silhouette. She says nothing, just eyes him up and down—whatever she sees must satisfy her, because she nods and retreats again into Caleb’s shadow at the head of the line.

Jester comes next, walking just slowly enough to allow him to catch up with her. The others string out ahead, shoulders hunched against the first sprinkle of snow from the leaden sky. She doesn’t say much either, at first, just makes _tsk_ ing noises over the state of him, giving up some of her waterskin so he can at least rinse the blood from his face and hands.

“That’s better,” she says at last, satisfied. “You looked like some horrible monster from the bottom of the seaaa.”

Fjord winces. “Jess, I, ah. I’m sorry about before. For scarin’ you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Jester insists immediately, but her eyes are elsewhere. “It was a little bit freaky though, Fjord. You stuck your hand right into that guy’s neck and tore his throat out! Like, it was super cool and everything, and you definitely killed him dead which was good, but. Wheewww.” She whistles low between her teeth. “How come you don’t get like that all the time?”

 _Because I’m better than that_ , Fjord wants to say, but he’s no longer sure he believes it. “I don’t know,” he settles on at last. “I guess there was somethin’ about seeing a friend go down that… struck me. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

“Well, I mean, only if we _really_ need you to. Is it like Yasha’s rage? When she goes all…” She puts her hands up like claws and bares her pointed teeth, growling at nothing. “Like that?”

“I don’t think so,” Fjord says quietly. He’s seen Yasha’s rages plenty of times before, and they always feel… cold. Focused and razor sharp, like the edge of a fresh-stropped knife. “That, back there… it was like I was someone else for a minute. I barely even remember doing that, to be honest.” His fingers tighten like he’s reliving it, sinking his claws in deep and _tearing_. A shudder grips his spine and he drops his hand.

“It looked _super_ cool,” Jester assures him, but there’s something tremulous about her voice that he doesn’t quite trust. “Hey Fjord?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you… all right?”

Fjord opens his mouth and stops, swallowing back whatever tepid lie had been waiting to emerge. “I don’t know,” he says at last. It’s only half a truth. He’s sure, almost definitely, that he is not all right. That none of them are _all right._

 _Nothing is going to be right again_ , says a small voice in the back of his head. He wants to shake the grimness off and laugh, cling to hope and brilliance like Jester deserves—like all of them have been trying to do, desperately, like they’re trying to outrace the storm of grief. But he can’t. He just feels hollowed-out and raw, a piece of fruit smashed against the ground to split and rot and draw flies.

“I don’t know either,” Jester says in a small voice, after some time has passed. It feels like the most honest thing she’s said since… the grave. She sighs and her shoulders round down, hair whipping in tight coils around her face as the wind begins to beat itself against their chill faces. “Maybe it takes time?”

“Maybe.” Fjord wants to reach out, offer some kind of base comfort, but the idea of physical contact turns his stomach right now. Not yet, with blood still caked beneath his claws, with the taste of metal biting at the back of his teeth. He feels fragile, his edges ready to unravel at the slightest tug on the wrong loose thread. Maybe in an hour or two, with an ale and a meal in his belly, when he feels more… real.

Zadash opens to them quietly, in the form of a small hidden door manned by a stringy-haired gnome with golden teeth and a familiar tattoo branding his knuckles. He tips his hat and ushers them into the Underdark. Fjord lets himself drift back a little farther, tromping in his friends’ wake as they make their obeisance to the Gentleman and hand over their prize.

They find their way to the Leaky Tap, which is still comfortable and reliable even under new management, and slowly break off in separate ways: Beau and Nott and Caduceus to the main room, gathered around the fire to sip hot toddies and laugh away the chill; Caleb to his own room, head bowed, fingers already running frenetically over the spine of his spellbook. Jester disappears when he isn’t paying attention, and reappears suddenly at the door of the room Fjord is sharing with Caduceus. He’s only half out of his armor, moving more slowly than usual, so he answers the door barefoot, wearing just his leggings with his undershirt flapping loose and untucked around his thighs.

“I got this for you,” Jester says quickly, shoving something into his hands before fleeing. It’s a tiny glass vial, with a waxed cork keeping it sealed and a little piece of parchment wrapped around the end. He stands in the door a moment, largely undressed, just staring at it laying innocently in the palm of his hand—then he hears footsteps down the hall and shuts it quickly, retreating before anyone else can see him in such disarray.

The vial’s contents are a pale purple when held up to the light. He sets it carefully on the bedside table and unravels the parchment.

 _Bath oil_ , it reads, in a careful, spidery hand that does not belong to Jester. Caleb, he realizes after a moment. He brings the parchment to his nose and catches a whiff of mildew and old book smell. Definitely Caleb. With a curious smile stretching the corner of his mouth, uncertain, he twists the cork free.

Lavender blooms in his face immediately, potent but not unpleasant. And with it, a memory so intense it nearly brings tears to his eyes: Mollymauk Tealeaf, whirling through the streets of Hupperdook, fireworks in his eyes and flowers in his hair. Trailing glee and childish wonder behind him like a coat of many colors.

Fjord gasps like he’s been punched in the stomach. He can practically see Molly standing before him, a shimmering mirage conjured out of lavender and blood. Fjord sits down on the bed, hard, and presses the cork back into place with shaking fingers.

“You bastard,” he whispers. It’s all he can manage—every ragged breath feels shredded to pieces in his chest, like something has punctured his lungs and torn his ribcage wide open. He rubs his sternum with one hand, wrist and forearm still tacky with dried blood, and for a moment it feels like he could reach inside himself, grab the broken, shattered wreckage there, and drag it out into the light for perusal.

But it passes, slowly. In pieces. It aches, pounding in the back of his head, but he manages to pull the coffin shut again over his fear, his grief, his rage, and lock it tightly. _I can’t_ , he begs, to himself? To Molly? To no one at all? _I can’t face it yet, please don’t make me_.

After long minutes he can breathe again. He squeezes the vial in one hand, considering. He’s in desperate need of a bath, it’s true. Whether he can bear to take one or not is another matter. But time, as usual, makes up his mind for him. While he sits, quietly gathering his far-flung thoughts, Caduceus returns to the room and shakes him from his stupor. Midnight has ticked over while he wasn’t paying attention, and his leaden limbs now refuse cooperation.

“Gathering wool?” the firbolg asks, his customary drawn-out cheer now spun even further into a long, bassy thread that resonates in Fjord’s chest like a gong. Caduceus doesn’t seem to require a response. Fjord watches as he moves about the room slowly and methodically, removing his armor, brushing out his hair, splashing a bit of water on his face. It’s a bit like an unsung lullaby, just watching him—Fjord feels his head growing heavier and heavier, the cloak of sleep creeping up on him in stages. “You should clean up a bit before you fall asleep,” Caduceus says, distant, filtered through exhaustion.

“I will,” Fjord says, without quite hearing himself. There’s a washbasin in the corner of the room, but walking to it seems an insurmountable task. He lets his chin tip down toward his chest like Caleb had earlier. Just for a minute.

><

Fjord is swallowing water. He’s been here before: waist-deep, slogging at an impossible angle as the deck beneath his feet begins to tilt. The ocean drags at his thighs, the sash at his waist. His fingers are numb and wrinkled and scraped to all hell from pounding on the underside of the hatch—to no avail.

He’s been screaming for so long that he has no voice left. The ship sank slowly, at first, and he tried to conserve his energy, but now all he has is desperation and his own bloodied fists. And always, always, the taste of salt and ash in the back of his throat.

 _It’s only a dream_ , he tries to tell himself, _only a nightmare_ —but it’s more than those things. More than sepia-toned images torn in loose handfuls from the waterlogged tome of memory. Right now, with the water sucking hungrily at his ribs, his fingernails torn and splintered against the shivering wood, it’s completely real.

_Fjord, wake up._

The voice is so unexpected that for a moment his vain struggling is pulled taut—he stands there braced against the brig hatch, gasping through mouthfuls of water and trying to find the source of the voice. But everything is chaos. All around him is the sound of the ship going down, creaking wood and crashing waves, echoes of screams, the roar and surge of the hungry sea.

_Fjord. You know this is a dream. Open your eyes, it’s time to wake up._

The voice is coming from inside him. He looks down at himself and recoils instinctively. There’s a gaping wound in his chest that he doesn’t remember being there before—not ever in this dream, and not in the shadowy recesses of his old life.

The disconnect is enough to throw him out of it. He rockets upright in bed, choking and coughing on bloody seawater. Caduceus is already at his side, palms glowing, illuminating the room with soft purple-rose that’s a world of difference from the watery grave-light of the dream world. Fjord opens his mouth to try to explain, but nothing emerges. Not even water. He’s just… empty.

_Empty._

“All right, there, take it easy. You’re gonna be okay.” Caduceus rests one heavy hand on the center of Fjord’s sternum. His shirt has been torn open by his thrashing—it hangs off one shoulder, exposing his chest. There is no blood, except what he coughed up a few moments ago, coppery and brackish. No mortal wound. Caduceus’ hand is warm and firm against his skin, slightly toughened into pads on his fingers and palm. When he’s sure Fjord is breathing normally again, the firbolg pulls away.

“Thank you,” Fjord rasps, bowing his head. “I should’ve, uh. Warned you about that.”

“Oh, Beauregard informed me of your… dreams.” Caduceus doesn’t sound at all perturbed, voice slightly rough from sleep. But when Fjord looks up at him his eyes are round and pupil-black, his ears twitching like an irate cat’s. “I can’t say I was expecting them to be quite so violent.”

“Yeah. This one was. Bad.” He touches the center of his own chest again, feeling for the wound, but there’s still nothing. “Sorry to wake you.”

“No trouble.” Caduceus stays where he is a moment longer, just watching. Fjord breathes, and breathes, and lays back down, and the firbolg finally returns to his own bed. His feet hang off the end a little bit, Fjord realizes.

“We’ll find somewhere else tomorrow.”

“How do you mean?”

Fjord gestures to the other bed. “There’s gotta be places in Zadash that cater to, uh, larger folks like yourself. No reason you should have to sleep uncomfortably when we can afford better.”

“Oh! I don’t mind.” The firbolg wriggles this way and that until he’s settled on his side, knees pulled up slightly to his chest. “This is much more comfortable than the moss pallet I have back home.”

“Right.” Fjord shakes his head and stares at the ceiling instead, willing sleep to come to him. Now jarred awake, he’s uncomfortably aware of how… unusual Caduceus is. Not Molly-unusual, but strange nonetheless. His scent fills the room with its earthy petrichor, a world away from Molly’s floral perfumes and sandalwood incense. His breathing is a little louder, a little gruffer in his nose. He doesn’t snore like Molly does—did. _Dead._

Fjord rolls over in bed and shoves his face into the pillow. So late at night his defenses are worn thin to the brink, and it’s difficult to fight off the pain cracking in his chest. His eyes burn with fury. His arms are still stained with blood.

As quietly as he can, Fjord stands and pads over to the washbasin. Caduceus snuffles and turns in his sleep, and Fjord tries to ignore him as he wipes a clean, wet rag over his arms and face and chest. He pulls his ruined shirt over his head and drops it to the floor. Stripped to the waist, he goes to the window and looks out. The moon is still an orange-gold sliver in the sky over Zadash, her lesser cousin a keen-edged glimmer just behind. Fjord leans his forehead against the leaded glass and watches the heat-shimmer of his own reflection staring back.

 _Blink._ The muted color of the oil street lamps blurs his vision, distorting color through the glass, and for a minute his face is alien to him. Sharper angles, wider mouth, the arch of a nose that is smoother than his own, unbroken. _Blink._ His eyes glow red. Twin blood moons.

_Go to bed, Fjord._

He jerks back from the glass and shakes his head, hard. Water droplets fling away from his hair and dapple the glass, shattering the illusion. “You’re seeing things,” he whispers to himself, dropping the wet rag beside the washbasin to dry. He crawls back into bed in just his leggings and curls his toes against the cool, worn sheets.

Sleep hits him hard, before he’s quite ready for it. Like someone had pulled a blanket up over his shoulders and kissed his forehead, sending him to dreamland by rote muscle memory. This time his sleep is dreamless and unmolested, and when he wakes, it’s to tepid sunlight streaming through the glass and Caduceus sat on the edge of his own bed lacing up his boots. Another day, painful in its normalcy. Fjord rubs his hollow chest and climbs out of bed.

><

“Oh, that’s a neat trick.”

Fjord turns away from the the window, where he was gazing longingly into the street, and finds Caleb standing there looking at him. He paints a pretty picture: clean-shaven and freshly-washed with his hair aglow around his head, cast into a fiery halo by the light streaming through the window. He’s flushed from darting around the used bookshop, and there’s a smudge of dust on his cheek. And he is staring.

“What?” Fjord says dumbly, looking down at himself. He puts a self-conscious hand to the collar of his new undertunic where it peeks out the top of his breastplate. “My fly undone or somethin’?”

“No…” Caleb shakes his head and his fingers tap a little off-kilter rhythm against the spine of the book in his hands. “There was something strange about your silhouette. Like your reflection was part of you, and apart from you. Were you channeling something? Some kind of ethereal plane, warlock… thing?”

It’s so rare for Caleb to be at a loss for words when describing magical anomalies. It would be adorable if the description wasn’t so alarming. Fjord turns back to the window, but all he sees is his own face. “Not on purpose,” he says. His palm is starting to itch and he closes his fingers into a fist, digging his nails in the meat of his thumb. His own eyes stare back at him through the glass, bruised with sleeplessness. Their tangle with the kobolds was only yesterday, but it feels like a lifetime ago.

A hand touches his elbow and he flinches, hard, before seeing Caleb’s watery reflection standing beside his own.

“Fjord. Are you…”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. “Just tired. It’s a bit stuffy in here, I’m going to go stand outside.”

He leaves before Caleb has a chance to dissuade him. It’s a bit brusque, maybe even rude, but he can’t bring himself to care. He stands to one side, out of the way of any potential patrons, and takes in deep lungfuls of cool, crackling air. It tastes like snow and chimney-soot. Cluttered, crowded, brackish. Like stagnant water. Fjord crosses his arms over his chest and waits.

Caleb blows out of the bookshop a little while later and stutters to a stop in the middle of the street. “Oh. I thought you’d gone.”

“Nope.” His lips _pop_ around the end of the word as he watches a handful of Crownsguard pass by on patrol. “Shall we rejoin the others?”

Caleb makes a _lead the way_ sort of gesture and falls in beside him as they step into the road.

The bookshop was a little off the beaten path, recommended to them by Pumat Sol, so the stroll back to the center of the Pentamarket is winding, almost leisurely. There are no carts permitted in the back streets with the buildings so narrow and close to the road, so they walk freely alongside a handful of other pedestrians. They are given a wide berth. Maybe it’s their shabby appearance, but Fjord knows it’s because of him. He hasn’t seen many half-orcs this side of the Empire, and it’s clear that the general populace eyes him with inherent suspicion, especially dressed as he is.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Caleb says suddenly, dragging him from his gloomy thoughts, “but may I ask why you chose to come shopping with me instead of the others? I know you have little interest in literature.”

He sounds almost disappointed as he says it. Fjord hooks his thumbs in his belt and ducks his head. “I dunno. Needed the space, I s’pose. Didn’t mean to be a bother.”

Caleb’s footsteps stammer like a poorly-struck tune before picking up the tempo again. “You are not a bother, Fjord. I just fear that I am not very good company, and I was curious. We don’t have to speak about it.”

“Oh, well.” Fjord rubs the bristle growing thicker on his chin. There’s been no time to shave in recent weeks, and he finds he doesn’t mind it once it grows beyond the itchy stage. “I don’t think you’re bad company at all. I enjoy a little… quietude, now and then.” He doesn’t _want_ to speak ill of their companions, who are all very good and kind and also somehow the most obnoxious people Fjord has ever met—barring Caduceus, of whom Fjord has yet to form an opinion. But he doesn’t have to. Caleb chuckles and burrows a knowing smile into his scarf.

“Our friends are certainly a motley bunch, aren’t they. Well, all of us are, and together we’re a right holy terror to behold. But I… agree. It is nice to enjoy some peace and quiet once in a while.” He shoots Fjord a keen, knowing glance out of the corner of his eye. “How long have you had a double?”

Fjord trips over a loose cobble and catches himself from falling just in time. “Sorry, what?”

“Back there, in the glass. Your second reflection. How long has that been going on?”

“Well I don’t exactly spend my days admirin’ myself in mirrors, do I?” Fjord says shortly, bristling a little. Caleb’s lips thin with disapproval—or disappointment—and Fjord huffs a sigh. “I don’t know, is the answer. I can’t—can’t recall it ever happening before Shady Creek. The last few days in Zadash is the first it’s happened.”

 _Twin blood moons reflected in a golden blade. A face, gaunt and tired, staring him down in a pool of water._ Fjord shudders and passes his hand over his eyes.

“Herr Clay spoke to me of your… incident, last night,” Caleb says quietly after they’ve walked another block or two in shared silence. It weighs across their shoulders like pails of water trudged uphill, and despite Caleb’s efforts to leave it behind, the burden refuses to be shrugged away.

“Incident. Yeah. You could call it that.”

They come to an intersection and Caleb stops walking for a moment, fingering the small leather purse hanging at his belt. Any pickpocket would be disappointed if they tried to lift it—Fjord knows from long weeks of shared travel that Caleb keeps nothing of value there. Only spell components. Some licorice root wrapped in wax paper, a little vial of salt, a pinch of ash, a square bit of cloth wrapped with twine around a few pellets of dried guano. Caleb’s magic is messy and haphazard, but Fjord has to hand it to him—he always knows where his ingredients are.

“I have a bit of herb that might help with sleeping,” Caleb says. His earnest blue eyes dart up and down the street, but they are alone for the moment, caught in a pocket of stillness among the eddies of people going about their business. “Herr Clay told me of it, when he noticed I was having… difficulties.”

Fjord turns his head a little and peers at Caleb askance, as if a subverted angle will reveal shades of knowledge hiding beneath Caleb’s outer shell. But he is a mortal man, not fey, and the trick has no effect. “Herr Clay. Huh. He, uh, seems to be fitting well into the group.”

Caleb shrugs, sending the loose plackets of his coat flapping in the breeze. “I think a week’s travel in close quarters will do that. He is obviously handy to have around—I think Jester is enjoying the freedom from being the only healer.”

“You trust him, then?” Fjord hears himself ask. He doesn’t know where the tickle of jealousy in his breast is coming from. Maybe it’s the echo of _I don’t trust any of you people yet_ in the back of his head, the skittish way Caleb looked at him in the street as they traded treasures. Fjord likes to think of himself as worthy of trust, of confidence—but from Caleb, such things are hard-won.

“I trust him not to kill us in our sleep,” Caleb says blithely, unaware of the turmoil behind Fjord’s latchkey expression.

Across the street, two Crownsguard walk together, shoulder to shoulder, their eyes scanning the street for trouble. Caleb pivots smoothly on his heel like it’s sheer instinct, putting his back to them and his face to Fjord.

“Think about it, ja?” he says. Then, “Come, the others will be waiting.”

Fjord has no choice but to dutifully follow, eyes on the industrious snap of Caleb’s coat hem, thoughts on the press of thumb to leather, the tuck of Caleb’s hand against his purse. And he wonders.

><

Fjord tosses and turns in his lonely bed in the Pillow Trove for nearly two hours before succumbing. He rises from bed, splashes a little water on his face—careful to avoid eye contact with his reflection—and steps into his boots before walking across the hall to Caleb’s room.

As far as he knows, Caleb has taken rooms with Nott as usual. But when he knocks on the door there is no scrabbling of goblin feet against the floor, no piping call demanding he identify himself. Instead there is some rustling and muffled voices, and then low, heavy footfalls before the door is pushed open to reveal Caduceus Clay, wearing a long pale robe and stooped down a little to avoid striking his head against the lintel.

“Hello there,” Caduceus says, smile wreathing his broad face. “Please, come in.”

Fjord flounders on the doorstep, almost afraid to look into the room. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything…”

“You are not interrupting,” comes Caleb’s voice from deeper inside the room.

Since it would be rude to knock and then just stand in the hallway with the door open, Fjord moves inside. A quick glance around the interior reveals a room much like his own: smooth floorboards shined to a reflective polish and strewn with plush rugs, tall windows framed in thick curtains now flung open to admit the cool night air, and a pair of large, unmade beds to either side of the room. They’re far bigger than the bed in his own room, with four posts and gauzy curtains and, at the moment, one of them is occupied by a wizard sitting crosslegged in a well-worn nightshirt, a pipe between his fingers and a long stream of smoke slipping from between his lips.

“Fjord,” Caleb says, sounding utterly unsurprised to see him. He turns the pipe so that the stem points outward and holds it up invitingly. “I’m glad to see you’re taking my advice.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Fjord admits, “so I didn’t have much choice.” He takes the offered pipe and examines it. He’s smoked his share of substances via a variety of methods—such was the life of a sailor surrounded by folks of all types and trades. But this particular pipe is of a make he’s never seen before. Hand-carved, clearly, made of a dark rich wood that’s been polished to a deep sheen that smells faintly of beeswax. The bowl is deep and round, with little figures whittled around the rim, and inside, ashy leaves burn slowly, exuding a pale blue smoke.

“Well, don’t waste it,” Caduceus says from behind. He comes to the other bed and settles himself on the edge of it, sweeping his tail out of the way in a thoughtless, familiar gesture that Fjord has watched some of his companions do a hundred times. The room isn’t terribly big, and his knees nearly bump into the mattress of the bed where Caleb perches, made even more frail by the sheer size of the frame. “There’s not much of that stuff left. I don’t think it grows outside the Savalier Wood.”

Fjord puts the stems to his lips obediently and fills his lungs. The hot crackle in his chest is old, familiar—it tastes of wild moors, of the deep wet loam that lives beneath layers and layers of dead leaves fallen to the forest floor. It tastes of dead coals and peatmoss and cold rains on a salt-slick deck. He holds it, eyes half-shut, and exhales the mists of a cold morning at sea.

“I’ve had this before,” he rasps, passing the pipe back.

“You have?” Caduceus asks, suddenly wide-eyed and delighted. “Where?”

“During a job, a trip north. One of our crew kept it in a special satchel. Only rationed it out in case of emergencies.” He hooks his palm around the spine of the desk chair and pulls it over to sit down. The smoke is already having an effect. The tension riding at the base of his skull is unwinding itself, knot by slippery knot, and his legs stretch out in front of him, cocked a little at the hip and knee. It’s a vulnerable position, leaving his belly and privates exposed, but no attack is coming, here. He is safe. He is among friends.

“Perhaps it will be possible to cultivate it elsewhere,” Caduceus is saying. The leaf draws his voice out low, extended the basso rumble like a velvet carpet, plush and thick underfoot. Fjord’s toes curl in his boots and he suddenly wishes he’d left them behind.

“Here.” Caleb knocks the pipe gently into Fjord’s hands again. “There’s another puff or two left, my friend.”

“Thank you.” Startled by the endearment, Fjord fumbles with the pipe and nearly drops it before fitting the stem between his lips. He takes a breath and watches the coals glow brilliant orange-red and fade again, curling into grey-blue ash. The taste is a little more acrid now, signaling the end. He wrests a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dumps the powdery dregs into it for disposal.

Caleb gives a deep, contented sigh and leans back against the pillows, half-reclined with his hands folded tidily over his stomach. Fjord doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so relaxed. Or so dressed down, apart from the occasional public bath. His boots are lined up at the door with his coat on a peg, and the straps of his holsters are gone—without them his ribs seem to wax and wane in great slow gusts, like the infinitesimal opening and closing of moonflowers at night.

Something has happened, Fjord thinks, during their… time apart. Something more profound than just another rescue mission. The strangeness of the scene compounds itself as Caduceus pulls out a very large skein of yarn and begins to knit, entirely comfortable with the leaden quiet. Fjord watches him for a while before dropping his gaze to the floor between his planted feet. He does not belong here.

“Fjord,” Caleb murmurs suddenly, catching him in the midst of engineering an escape. He looks up. Somehow, in that ponderous interim, Caleb has stretched out fully onto the mattress. His nightshirt slides up one thigh, but he doesn't seem to notice or mind. “Tell me about him.”

Fjord blinks and tears his eyes away from the pale, vulnerable skin above Caleb’s knee. “About who?”

Caleb’s heavy-lidded eyes are keen as a razor in spite of the shared pipe. The blue smoke still hovers in the room above their heads, spangled and strung with sheen like unfiltered starlight; it swirls in shapes around Caduceus’ head as the firbolg stands and goes to the corner of the room to tidy himself for bed.

“The man in the window. Or, forgive me—I assume it was a man. That was the shape I thought I saw, back at the shop earlier today.”

Fjord’s breath runs cold in his chest. He wonders if it’s from the smoke, or from something else. “I don’t know,” he says, as honestly as he knows how. He sighs deeply, and the exhale that leaves his lips is visible in the air: a frost cloud that hangs a moment before evaporating.

Caleb pushes himself upright, suddenly more alert. “Fjord? Are you all right?”

“The pipe,” Fjord says uneasily, putting a hand to his chest. “I must not be used to…”

In an instant, moving more quickly than any mortal man should, Caleb is off the bed and standing before him. He is barefoot, and Fjord can see his knobbly knees below the hem of his nightshirt. It’s strangely charming. Then Caleb takes Fjord’s hand and the shocking heat of it sends a frisson of alarm through Fjord’s ribcage. He looks down. The tips of his fingers are frosted white, starting to melt where Caleb’s touch has thawed him.

“Caduceus,” Caleb says, voice strangled. “Come here.”

The firbolg leaves off his evening ablutions and comes to them without asking questions. His shirt is hanging loose around his waist, held up only by virtue of his girdle, and Fjord’s eyes stray to his pink-furred chest and long, jutting collarbones for long moments before he remembers that it’s rude to stare.

“Fjord?” Caleb asks gently. “Are you with me?”

“I’m fine. I’m just—” The chill overwhelms him suddenly, counterpointed by the hot flush of Caduceus’ knuckles against his forehead, and his teeth begin to chatter. “Just a bit cold.”

Caleb looks up at their taller companion. “A side effect of the pipeweed?”

Caduceus frowns and shakes his head back and forth, long ears turned down with concern. “I don’t believe so. But just in case…” He spreads his broad hands across Fjord’s chest, thumbs meeting together at his sternum, and shuts his eyes. Warmth flows into Fjord, steady as a candle flame without a draught. The relief is so potent that Fjord gasps and leans into it—and then the spell fades, and the chill returns to his bones.

“Well,” says Caduceus, looking down at him with a curious tilt of his chin. “May I ask about your companion, then?”

“My… what?”

“There’s a shadow that hangs around you.” There is a shared glance between Caleb and Caduceus, and somehow Fjord knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “The one Mr. Caleb says you’ve been seeing in windows.”

_Oh, that’s a neat trick._

Fjord tugs his hands free of Caleb’s fingers and tucks them under his armpits to keep them warm. It doesn’t really help. “I don't know. I was… I was sort of hoping you could tell _me_.” He nudges his chin toward Caduceus. “You deal with the dead, don’t you?”

“On occasion,” Caduceus says. “But I see no ghosts inside you.”

 _The sword_ , Fjord realizes. The thought is so unprompted it’s as if someone took it, already fully-formed, and dropped it into the still pool of Fjord’s mind. He holds out one frost-tinged hand and curls his fingers in the proper shape. In a slick rush of saltwater, stinging with cold, Summer’s Dance appears in his hand. It feels more alive than it ever has before—it almost seems to hum, trapped in some vibrant energy cycle that floods the room with golden light.

Caleb takes a step back and bumps into Caduceus. “Has it ever looked like that before?”

Fjord shakes his head dumbly. The sword is _singing_ to him. It aches, like the ache in the center of his breast. It calls for something he cannot give.

Or maybe he can.

Moving mostly on instinct, he lifts his free hand and glides the golden blade against the pad of his thumb. It’s keener than it should be, sharper than any mortal whetstone could make it—it cuts so cleanly that he barely feels it. Then his blood is on the blade, a thin veneer of red, and all of the frigid crystals collecting in his lungs are expelled at once in a rush.

 _Kshhh._ The ice sighs out of him, directed by the blade in a wide arc along the floor. As soon as it meets with the cozy warmth of the room, kept so by the merry-burning hearth, the white swathe begins to melt and turn to water.

Caleb kneels, and dips a finger into the puddle left behind. Lifts it to his mouth and his eyes to Fjord’s face. “Saltwater,” he says. Fjord can’t bring himself to even feign surprise.

Fjord curls his hand in toward his wrist and makes a sheathing motion. The falchion disappears, leaving scattered frost crystals on his hip that quickly melt and turn to beads of water. His fingers are no longer chilled, and he can breathe easy. He takes a deep breath and massages the center of his chest.

“That’s new,” he says, staring at his palm. The cut on his thumb stings a little, but the blood has already dried into the cracks of his knuckles, little spiderwebbing strands of reddish-black darkening as it oxidizes in the open air.

“Mollymauk is still with you.” Caleb is still staring at him. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but that, what you just did—that was him all over.”

Fjord begins to shiver again, but not from cold. “But. He’s dead.” The words taste brittle on his tongue. “How could he still be here? With me?”

“You said,” Caleb says slowly, “before, when you took his sword. You said you wanted to keep a piece of him with us. With _you_ , specifically. I think perhaps your wish was granted.”

Fjord shivers at the thought. The weight of the dead is a heavy chain to bear indeed.

“I see no spirit on you, but there is still… something.” Caduceus’ brow furrows slightly as he regards him, violet eyes long-lashed and moist at the corners. “Perhaps you would prefer not to sleep alone tonight, Mr. Fjord.”

“I can’t say that I would,” Fjord admits. “But I don’t want to, er, impose…”

“There is no imposition,” Caleb says firmly. “I know that I would feel better if you were nearby, Fjord. That way if you _are_ being haunted, you will have two more people to wake up and tell him to fuck off and let you sleep.”

This idle remark breaks the tension in Fjord’s chest and he laughs, albeit rustily and with mild alarm. Though he aches with the memories of a missing friend, he’s not sure how he feels about dragging Molly’s benighted spirit behind him against his will. Molly, of all people, deserves an easy rest. “In that case, I’ll take you up on it. Thank you kindly.”

Caleb moves to the writing desk in one corner, then, and begins to scratch out spells in his thin, spidery hand while Caduceus moves about the room, dimming the gas lights. A handful of candles keep the corner lit where Caleb works, but the right hand bed—firbolg-sized, Fjord notes—is draped in darkness. Fjord’s limbs suddenly feel unbearably heavy.

“Tea?” Caduceus inquires gently, materializing at his elbow. Fjord would jump if he had the energy, but whatever was in that pipe has drained the last dregs of nervous energy out of him.

“No, thank you.” He stands, and feels himself lean a bit. There is a soft, fur-edged palm at his elbow, and Caduceus helps him to the bed where he sprawls, childishly delighted by the soft sheets and endless expanse of mattress. “Y’know,” he says, partly to Caduceus and partly to the pillow beneath his cheek, “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“How do you mean?” Caduceus inquires, infinitely polite.

“Well.” Fjord mulls this over. “Just that we have a usual pattern whenever we take rooms at an inn. Nott usually rooms with Caleb, even when we have enough coin to take separate rooms for each of us.”

“Ah.” Caduceus sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded polite and tentative in his lap. “I know I am a newcomer to this group. I apologize if my presence has upset the balance.”

Fjord is befuddled—he hadn’t meant to make Caduceus feel unwelcome, or uncomfortable. But before he can clarify his winding thoughts into words, Caleb speaks up from the corner, head still bowed over his work: “The girls have staked their claim on a room of their own, and I was banished. Mr. Clay was kind enough to take me in.”

Wrong-footed, Fjord rolls onto his back to look between the two. “I don’t mean to cast aspersions…”

“That’s alright,” Caduceus rumbles. “They must have more than a few giantkin passing through this town, and it seemed wasteful to have two entire beds to myself. Besides,” and he nods to the pipe still sitting on the little table between the beds, “the smoke is less likely to bother other people when we can share it in private.”

“You frequently, ah. Self-medicate, then?”

“Who else’s job would it be?” Caduceu inquires, and that’s a fair question. His violet eyes gleam as he peers down at Fjord. “Smoking for relaxation and for pleasure is a time-honored tradition among city folk, Mr. Caleb has informed me. Do you disagree?”

“No,” Fjord murmurs slowly, drawn out by the slight haze of good pipeweed. His eyes catch on the nape of Caleb’s neck, bared above the collar as he bends over his work. He’s pulled his hair back in a low knot, and a few curling strands have slipped free to glint like spun gold in the low light. It seems a terribly intimate spot. He considers it, feeling each heartbeat thud heartily and slow against his sternum—considers the question sitting heavy and unspoken on his tongue. He mulls it over for a while before deciding that the worst they can do to him now is kick him out of bed, and he’s survived far worse. “Are the two of you… involved?”

There’s a brisk clatter as Caleb drops his quill to the wooden desk, and the wizard turns in his seat, slinging his elbow along the back of it. For a second Fjord grows tense, knees drawing up as if preparing to defend himself. But Caleb wears a funny little half-smile in the dimness that puts him at ease. “Why, Fjord,” he says, with the mocking disapproval of a teacher scolding a pupil, “I never took you for a lowbrow gossip.”

Fjord shrugs weakly against the pillows. “I’m a sailor. Nothing to do on a ship in the downtime _except_ gossip.”

“And you really think so many things have changed since… since you were taken.” The edge of his smile grows brittle and fades. His eyes stray to Caduceus, still perched like a silent shadow at the edge of the bed.

“Seems to me a great many things have changed,” Fjord says. He examines the palm of his hand, the little seam of dried blood. It stings more than he expected.

Suddenly his hand is swallowed up by a much larger paw. He watches as Caduceus hums something under his breath and a warm glow suffuses his eyes and the seam of Fjord’s small wound. A moment later the sting is gone. Caduceus rubs the spot briskly, like a parent scrubbing dirt from a child’s face.

“There you are, Mr. Fjord. Good as new.”

“Thank you, Caduceus,” Fjord says humbly. He glances toward the desk, where Caleb is bowed once more, working diligently by candlelight. He lowers his voice and murmurs, “I’m sorry if I offended.”

“I don’t mind,” is all Caduceus says, his voice as low and placid as the roots of mountains. “Goodnight, Mr. Fjord. Please don’t hesitate to wake me if you experience any further strangeness.”

Fjord nods and watches him take himself off to the other bed. It occurs to him with a jolt, then, who will be sharing his. He glances at the seemingly vast stretch of mattress to his left and wriggles free of his boots. They drop one by one to the ground with soft _thunks_. He turns back the covers but lays atop them, blood running almost uncomfortably warm beneath his skin. _Skritch skritch skritch_ goes the quill. “Ah… Caleb?”

The pen stills. “ _Ja_?”

“Are you… comin’ to bed?”

Caleb hums and turns a page. “In a little while. I have a good deal of copying to do still, do not feel you must wait up for me.”

Fjord blinks slow and breaks a yawn against the back of his hand, inexplicably relieved. “I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. No ’fense.”

“That’s all right. You are due a good night’s rest, I think.”

Caleb is silent then, silent but for the occasional rustle of paper or soft exhale; Caduceus has already dropped off to sleep, and the sound of his breathing is deep and vast, like the far droning of wind at the end of a long cavern, or a brisk gale through the rigging of the _Tidesbreath_. His eyes slide shut and that’s the last thing he hears before sleep wells up like a deep, dark wave and drags him under.

><

He knows he’s dreaming right away. Beneath him is a sturdy, salt-worn deck—all around him stretches the ocean, calm and purple-edged in the fading light of sunset. He breathes in, in, and smells fresh air, balmy and wild. A stranger to the sea might be at a loss, but he knows this sky intimately, knows the taste of summer like the back of his hand. They’re on the trade route out of Port Damali, the sun sunken at their backs and the welcoming vastness of the sea before.

But not everything is the same. He’s wearing Vandran’s coat, for some reason, and when he lifts a hand to tug it off, fearful of being caught, he sees not deep green skin but brown. No claws, just square, blunt nails and calluses. He touches his own face and feels the short, neat beard, the hooked nose.

“Captain!” calls a voice, painfully familiar. He whirls on his heel, stomach lurching.

There, colorful as life, coat flapping around his ankles, comes Molly. Fjord feels like his boots have been nailed to the deck. He’s even brighter than he remembers him, and he’s not sure if it’s the dream or just the faded annals of his memory betraying him.

 _What are you doing here?_ he says, or tries to—his lips are frozen. It doesn’t matter. Molly somehow hears him anyway.

“You’re a hard man to pin down, Fjord,” he says to Vandran’s face. _How does he see me_? Fjord wonders, and waves it away to the mysteries of dream logic. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Still, Fjord can muster no reply. Molly’s face wrinkles with frustration and he reaches out, seizing his shoulder in a firm grip. The deck shifts underfoot, not quite the pitch and yaw of a ship being tossed on the waves, and the world around him shrinks, grows dim. When he catches his breath they are standing in a small, vaguely familiar room—a generic inn, but he can faintly hear revelry from below, can smell stale beer and the faint but pungent aroma of roasted meat. _Hupperdook?_ In the distance comes a small explosion, and he flinches.

“It’s only fireworks,” Molly soothes, pressing him down to sit on the edge of the bed. He is himself again, at least: green, big, toothy. “Don’t try to talk. Just listen. You have to let me go.”

Fjord stares up at him, mute, helpless. The gentle press of Molly’s thumb to his cheek brings heat to his eyes.

“The sword can stay,” he adds. His ruby-red eyes glint with good humor and a wry, soft-edged fondness. “You’re the only one I trust with it, and Yasha doesn’t need it.” His claws drag through the short hairs trimmed close to the side of his head and Fjord tries not to lean into it too much.

“I don’t know how.” It’s the first thing he’s managed to say for what feels like eons. His voice is hoarse and scratchy, throat tight. “Molls—”

“Hush. You’re not very good at following orders, are you?”

Fjord’s chest constricts. “I can be,” he says, too eagerly, and Molly laughs.

“A shame I won’t get to test the limits of _that_. Listen to me, darling, this is important. I don’t know what you did, or how you did it, but you’re holding onto me. You need to let go. Not just for my sake—for yours.” He catches Fjord’s hand up and examines the tiny scar Caduceus had healed over. “This… this will attract attention to you. Unwanted attention.”

Fjord tries not to laugh, and fails. “I already get plenty of that. A little more won’t kill me. And anyway, I can handle myself.”

“Tsk! Look who’s so sure of himself.” Despite the mocking tone, his eyes are tense and creased at the edges with real worry. “I mean it, Fjord. I might not remember shit about who Lucien was, but I know he was a bad person, and whoever he ran with was even worse. I need you to stay safe.”

“I’ll… I’ll do my best,” Fjord says, though he has no idea how, or whether he’ll even remember this in the morning. “Moll—”

“Yes?”

He takes a moment, examining him closely. Fireworks still spark in the distance, and below he fancies he can hear the Hour of Honor—roars and cheering and the slam of tankards on tables, the slosh of cheap ales in their barrels. The dim cacophony glimmers under Molly’s skin, revelry and joy reflecting in the colors of his tattoos. He had had… thoughts, once. Little threads of contemplation and curiosity. The first shadowy vestiges of _what if_. All dust now.

“Are you truly dead?” he says at last. The air around him feels heavy all of a sudden, shivery and constricting.

“Yes.” Molly says it plainly, without effect. He still cups Fjord’s face in his hands, and doesn’t flinch when the first tear rolls down his cheek and meets with the edge of his thumb.

“Does it hurt?”

“Right now? Nah. Dying? Hurt like fuck.” He grins, sharp-toothed, lit from behind by a strange red light that Fjord doesn’t recall being there before. “Worth it, though.”

“You don’t—don’t regret it?”

“Ha! Fuck no, why would I?” He does pull away then, gives an elaborate twirl. The edges of him look strange and watery, limbs extended in the red half-light like Fjord is viewing him through distorted glass. “I knew I was running on borrowed time. I like to think I made the most of it. So dry those tears, sweetheart.” He settles his collar into place like a preening bird. “And take my advice, won’t you? Keep moving on. There’s no point in lingering over me—I’m gone. I’m beyond the veil. And what a thrill it is!”

Fjord shakes his head, amused despite himself. “I don’t suppose you’ll give me any hints?”

Molly grins. “I’m afraid that’s not allowed.”

With a little sigh, Fjord looks around, trying to garner clues. He’s half-expecting the world to fade away into wakefulness at any moment, but the room remains, lit by that same strange reddish glow from outside. “You know,” he says into the perfect stillness, “I can’t help but feel like I… missed my chance. There were things… I wanted to say to you. Things I wanted to do.”

“Like?” With perfect fluid steps, Molly takes himself to the bed and sides beside him. Fjord chances a look in his direction, but his expression is only intent and vaguely curious.

“Why did you bring us here?” he asks instead. “To Hupperdook?”

“Ah, so you _do_ recognize it. I thought perhaps you were too drunk to remember.”

 _Too drunk._ He _had_ been drunk that night, but pieces of it still come back to him. Molly hauling him out of the toilet and to bed, then curling up beside him on the narrow mattress. A giggling, half-coherent conversation. Fjord had tried to kiss him, he remembers suddenly. Heat flames in his cheeks and he turns away.

“I’m sorry, Molls.”

“For what? We had a good run, didn’t we?” A purple hand descends upon his knee and squeezes, more friendly than suggestive. “Don’t waste time on regrets. It’s bad for your health.”

Fjord sighs wetly. “You meant a lot to me, you know. You were… kind. And a right fuckwad, sometimes, but when it counted…”

“I appreciate it. But if you’re about to make a love confession, save your breath.”

“Of course not,” Fjord says grumpily, but Molly keeps right on talking.

“It wasn’t really _me_ you wanted, though, was it? You were just… distracted. Rightfully so.” He stands, plucks the edge of his coat up like a skirt, and bows low. “Your heart lies somewhere else, I think.”

“Am I that obvious?” Fjord mutters.

“Only to me, I think.” Laughing, Molly steps into his space and catches his chin in one hand. “Life is short. Don’t waste it on pining, you hear? For me, or for… anyone else.” The sly glint of his fangs is the last thing Fjord sees before he tightens his grip and kisses him full on the mouth.

Startled, Fjord flails backward, and there is no bed to catch him. He’s falling, falling into deep water. And he’s alone.

><

Morning comes slow, like the delicate spin of a thread from wool, shapeless void formed into sense and reason. Fjord is draped against Caleb’s side in bed, one arm lying against Caleb’s narrow waist. Despite the size of the bed, they had gravitated toward one another in the night. He should feel strange about it, maybe, but he doesn’t. Caleb feels like he belongs here, warm and safe, cocooned in Fjord’s embrace. And if he’s a little bit hard, well. He doesn't feel strange about  _that_ either, somehow. 

A floorboard creaks in the room behind him, and Fjord turns in bed a little too quickly to see Caduceus stooping to peer out the window at the grey day beyond. Caleb, thrust from sleep by the sudden jolt, murmurs and wriggles back against him. Fjord should lean away, maybe. He doesn’t.

“Caduceus,” Fjord says instead, holding each sibilant on his tongue like a sommelier. The firbolg hums in response and his large ears twitch, seeming to turn slightly in Fjord’s direction, and he straightens up away from the window.

“Good morning, Fjord. Sleep well?”

“Um… well enough.” One arm is still trapped beneath Caleb’s body, but with the other he wipes grit from his eyes and blinks, feeling reality settle over him one thread at a time. He opens his mouth to tell him about the dream and swallows it down. He doesn’t think he’s ready, yet.

“Good, that’s good. I am going to go out and find breakfast, I think.” He pulls a heavy grey-green cloak over himself, obscuring his vibrant hair and strange ears with the hood. “Don’t rush. We are taking our time this morning.”

The door falls shut near-silently as he departs, and Fjord sinks back to the mattress, warm and slightly anxious. He can feel Caleb growing more and more awake, his breaths quicker, the weight of his body stirring against Fjord’s side. _Don’t waste time pining_ , says Molly’s voice in the back of his head, more stern than he remembers it. Fjord lays still. Waits for Caleb to wriggle free of his admittedly loose hold. He doesn’t.

With tentative motions, Fjord returns his hand to Caleb’s waist and nuzzles at the nape of his neck, the same place he’d admired so openly last night. Caleb hums and presses back into his body.

“Morning,” Fjord whispers, thumb working circles into the soft fabric of his nightshirt.

“ _Guten morgen_.” Caleb sounds more awake than he’s let on thus far. His foot slides south between the sheets, glancing between Fjord’s calves. The movement brings his backside in closer contact with Fjord’s crotch, and his dick twitches with growing interest at the friction. Fjord gasps a little, tightening his grip. Caleb huffs.

“Caleb…” he begins, and finds he doesn’t know how to finish.

“Mm?”

“This…” He rubs Caleb’s flank in a long, smooth stroke, riding up the fabric an inch or two. He can smell Caleb intensely where his nose is buried at his hairline—sleep and sweat and musk, salty and tangy at the back of his throat. “Is this okay?”

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb breathes, and this time when he moves his hips back it’s with unmistakable purpose. Fjord’s breath catches in his chest and he cups the flat of Caleb’s belly with one hand, holding him in place as he grinds against his backside.

He half-wonders if he’s dreaming still. But it _feels_ so real. He can feel the sweat rising to his own skin, feel the thunder of his heartbeat in his chest. He can hear Caleb’s ragged gasps and moans, even buried as they are in the pillow. The way his hand fumbles for his laces is clumsy and real, as is the pressure of Caleb’s sweaty thighs as he pushes his cock between them.

“ _Oh_ ,” Caleb gasps. He reaches back and tangles his hand in Fjord’s trousers where they’re shoved halfway down his hips. “Fjord—”

“I’ve got you, darlin’. I’ll take care of you.”

Caleb cranes his neck a little, stretching back, red-faced and plump in the mouth from biting his lip. “I know you will,” he whispers, right before Fjord takes him in a kiss.

The angle is a bit awkward, the taste of him stale and sleep-sour, and it’s all so gloriously _real._ Fjord moans into his mouth and drives his hips forward, hand sliding up to cup his chest. The slide of skin is a little bit uncomfortable, but then Caleb mutters something into his mouth and Fjord’s cock slides freely, without impediment, glancing along his perineum and bollocks. Caleb growls a curse.

“Faster, Fjord, _bitte_.”

“I’m goin’ as fast as I can.” He nips Caleb’s ear and worms his unoccupied hand beneath his body and around. Caleb is so slim and wiry that it’s no trouble to reach his cock. It’s hard as iron and warm in Fjord’s grip, slick at the tip when he rubs his thumb across it. Caleb gives a muffled shout and jerks in his hold. “You gonna cum?”

“Not quite,” Caleb gasps, red-faced. He squirms, trying to aid Fjord’s hips, but between the grip he has on Caleb’s chest and his cock, it’s difficult to maintain a steady rhythm. “Gods—here, get—get on top of me.”

“You sure?” Fjord asks, even as he follows the tug of Caleb’s hand, rolling to cover him with his body. “I don’t wanna smother you, darlin’.”

“Wouldn’t mind if you did,” Caleb mutters.

“Sorry?”

“Nevermind.” Flushing, Caleb turns his cheek against the pillow and arches his back, moaning shamelessly as Fjord leans against him. He’s careful to keep from pressing down against his spine and occupies himself with kissing his neck and shoulders instead. Every brush of his lips seems to hit Caleb like a firecracker. He twitches and shudders under his mouth, under the strokes of his hand.

The sweet pressure of his thighs is starting to wear him down, and Fjord can feel the edge approaching. He gasps into Caleb’s throat and fucks him harder, hard enough that his bollocks slap against Caleb’s thighs with every stroke, hard enough that he can feel the root of Caleb’s erection at the apex of each thrust. He nuzzles into his nape and mumbles, “Gonna cum…”

“Not on the sheets,” Caleb says quickly, and despite the tension building in him, Fjord can’t help but laugh.

“Fussy,” he gasps, but he leans up on one elbow and jerks himself off with his free hand, stifling his moans in the curve of Caleb’s neck. He holds the head of his cock to Caleb’s pretty freckled arse when he orgasms, painting the flushed skin of his perineum in white. Still feeling a little feisty, he milks the last few drops with a slow fist and rubs the head of his cock over Caleb’s hole. Not quite _in_ , just over, until the oversensitivity pulls him away.

“Turn over,” he rasps, fingers pulling soft but insistent at Caleb’s hips.

“The sheets—”

“Oh, hang the sheets.” Fjord manhandles him onto his back and has to take a breath. He’s fucking gorgeous: skin flushed, eyes so dark they’re nearly black, hair wild and lips red and chapped as he gasps for air. His shirt is practically twisted in knots around him, and rides up to expose the trail of red hair leading from his navel to his cock, lying fat and heavy with blood against his hip. “Goddamn, Caleb.”

Caleb squirms and reaches for himself, but Fjord bats his hand out of the way and takes his cock in his fist. Bending to kiss him just completes the movement. Natural. Caleb kisses him back heartily for a moment or two, but the rhythm quickly dissolves under the ministrations of Fjord’s hand. He gathers a little of the leftover slick between Caleb’s thighs and pumps his cock, slow at first and then gaining speed, following the minute trembling of his hips and the quickening of his whimpers as he nears the edge.

“Fjord,” he chokes, and it’s his only warning. He arches his back and cries out once, loudly, hands knotted in the sheets as he spills over Fjord’s hand.

“Beautiful,” Fjord murmurs, kissing the sweaty bow of his exposed collarbone. His lips brush against a warm, delicate metal chain, and he reorients himself around it, kissing up the damp skin of his throat. “You’re beautiful, Caleb.”

“Ha… I’m a mess.” The last tremors of orgasm work their way through him as he flops, completely boneless, to the bed. His eyes are shut but trembling, delicate as butterfly wings in a breeze. He’s beautiful. Translucent. _Did we really just do that?_ Fjord tears his eyes away.

Feeling awkward for the first time all morning, Fjord withdraws and tucks himself back into his trousers. There’s a little hot water left in the kettle Caduceus must have used for tea earlier, and he pours it into the little washbasin in the corner of the room, mixing it with the tepid water left in the pitcher from the night before. He brings it to the bed and quietly wipes Caleb down with a damp cloth. He can feel his eyes on him, but Caleb doesn’t complain or move away, so he dabs his own seed from the seam of his arse and then takes both bowl and cloth to the door to be disposed of later.

At a loss, he returns to bed. Caleb is still rumpled and sex-flushed, but his breathing is easy and he hums a wordless welcome when Fjord climbs back up onto the mattress. Suddenly unsure of his boundaries, Fjord lays flat on his back and stares up at the ceiling. What he wouldn’t give for a little of Molly’s self-assurance now.

“You are… hmm. A tender lover,” Caleb muses after a little while. Fjord’s face grows hot.

“I’m… ah, sorry?”

Caleb huffs. “That was not a criticism, my friend.” With a long sigh, he pushes himself upright and sits at the edge of the bed, back to Fjord as he pulls his shirt over his head. Then, out of nowhere: “Mr. Clay and I are not involved.”

“Hmm?”

“You asked, last night.” The curve of Caleb’s spine is pale and milky in the early morning light, riddled with freckles and old scars and thin blue veins that sprawl beneath the skin like rivers crisscrossing the continent of his flesh. “I neglected to give you a proper answer.”

“It was… impertinent of me,” Fjord says, sheepish.

Caleb’s ribs flare on silent laughter. “ _Impertinent._ ”

“The herb made me foolish.” He swallows around a dry mouth and rests his hand against the smooth marble stretch of Caleb’s back. There’s a moment of stiffness, of uncertainty—and then Caleb sinks into it, sighing as he winds the leather thong free of his hair.

“And does it make you foolish now?”

“It would be a convenient excuse, wouldn’t it.”

“Would it?”

Fjord weighs his next words in his mouth like pebbles in the palm of his hand. “I’m glad. I mean—I’d feel a right shit if you _were_ , um, involved, and I… we…”

“Fucked?” Caleb finishes for him. His tone isn’t harsh, exactly, just… matter of fact. Fjord flinches regardless.

“I’d hardly call that… fucking,” he says, even as Caleb moves beneath his hand, turning and curling up with his head pillowed on Fjord’s extended arm and his knees drawn up toward his body. Fjord’s eyes flit down the length of him, over bony knees and soft cock and flushed, hairy chest. The glint of jewelry against his sternum draws Fjord’s eye: a red ruby shaped like a heart, cradled by cupped hands worked cleverly in gold. Beneath it hangs a larger ornament, an almond-shaped amber stone with a dark rune carved into it in the shape of a closed eye. It has an echo of eerie familiarity. _Consume_ , he thinks, and shivers.

“I didn’t peg you for the romantic type,” Caleb says thoughtfully. He’s watching Fjord’s face closely. Whatever he sees must agree with him, because he settles in a little closer and rests his hand on Fjord’s ribs possessively. “You are always scoffing at… at certain parties’ advances.”

Fjord wrinkles his nose. “ _Certain parties_ are young and seeing the world for the first time.”

“You prefer gentlemen anyway, don’t you.”

It’s not a question. Fjord clears his throat. “That obvious?”

He smiles. “Like recognize like, I suppose.”

Understanding, crystal-clear and reverberating with relief. “Ah.”

Caleb shifts, finally peeling his penetrative gaze from Fjord’s face. “I won’t lie, you’ve been on my mind for a little while. But I thought that perhaps you carried a torch for Mollymauk.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it a _torch_. Maybe a… a match. But it was more curiosity than anything.” He blushes, feeling strange about discussing the dead in the aftermath of such raw, living intimacy, and then he recalls the dream. With a little yelp he scrambles out of bed and summons his falchion.

“Fjord?” Caleb sits upright, strung with tension. Despite his nakedness, he looks on the verge of reaching for spell components. “What’s wrong?”

“I just wanted to see…” He peers into the golden glimmer of the blade, but all he sees are his own eyes, his own crooked nose, his own square, blunt teeth, lower tusks just barely starting to grow in. He’s not sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed. “I dreamed, last night. Molly… told me to let him go.”

Caleb’s limbs relax, and his eyes are dark with sympathy. “Just a match, hmm?”

“He was my friend,” Fjord says sharply—more sharply than warranted, perhaps. He banishes the falchion and rubs his hands through his hair with a sigh. “Sorry. I’ve just… got a lot on my mind.”

“No need for apologies.” Caleb pats the mattress until Fjord comes to sit beside him. He’s strangely comfortable with his own nudity, unconcerned with being seen so plainly. Fjord finds himself a bit envious. “I know you were… close to him. I didn’t know him as well as you did, but I think in time we could have been friends.”

Fjord nods. He’s not really paying attention. There’s a restlessness in his blood that he hasn’t felt in a long time—the call of salt and wind and a sturdy deck beneath his feet. He remembers the feel of Vandran’s coat on his shoulders, the burden of it. The sting of salt in old wounds.

“I think,” he muses, hands folded in his lap, “I need to… go.”

Caleb goes very still and quiet. “Go… where?”

“Not far—not forever. I just.” He looks up at the window where Caduceus had parted the curtains a little. Blue sky peers beyond, cold and distant. Nothing like the warm welcoming blue of the Menagerie Coast. Longing swells up in him suddenly, so strong he can hardly breathe. _Keep moving on._ “I need to figure out some things.”

“You’re Yasha’ing,” Caleb murmurs.

“Ha! I suppose that’s one way to put it.” He turns abruptly, taking Caleb’s face in his hands. Caleb goes still and stiff as a startled cat before relaxing into it. “I’ll come back. A week—just give me a week.”

“That was the plan, I think,” Caleb says agreeably, though his brow is wrinkled with worry. “You have no business you wish to conduct in Zadash?”

“Not here… no, not here.” Though he’s looking at Caleb’s handsome face, his vision swims elsewhere. “I need to ride south.”

Caleb watches in silence as he moves about the room, redressing himself, buckling on his boots. His things are still in his room across the hall, but he’d hardly unpacked the night before. It will be easy to take his things, hire a horse… retrace their steps. The prospect of a solo mission fills him with anticipation. Like old times. Just him and his sword and his wits, and a mystery to sink his teeth into. _I need to find Vandran_ , he thinks, and that sole desire burns in him so fiercely he wants to laugh with it.

He moves to the door and stops, still buzzing with pent-up energy. He turns. Caleb is dressing himself, albeit more slowly, face strange and pensive. Fjord drops the door handle and goes to him.

“I’ll be back,” he promises, cupping Caleb’s nape with one hand. He bends and kisses him: properly, head-on, gentle and shallow until Caleb’s tongue breaches his mouth and his fingers knot in Fjord’s shirt.

“You’d better be.” Caleb releases him and smiles. “Safe journeys, my friend. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“So do I,” Fjord admits. He flexes his hands at his sides, already missing the weight of him in his arms. He walks backwards to the door, drinking him in.

“Wait!” With a sudden surge of movement, Caleb meets him in the doorway, hands fumbling at his collar. He lifts the little red gem away and reaches up to fasten it around Fjord’s neck. “Take this with you. Just in case.”

Fjord looks down. His neck and shoulders are thicker than Caleb’s, and the little trinket rests just below his collarbones, red and glistening. “Thank you,” he says softly. He reaches up and twines his fingers through Caleb’s hair. Tenderness that he is unaccustomed to, but thinks he could very quickly come to crave. “Don’t get into trouble while I’m not around to protect you, all right?”

“Same to you, Fjord.” Caleb kisses his palm and lets him go.

Outside some minutes later, pack on his shoulder, coin in hand as he approaches the Pillow Trove’s stables, Fjord pauses in the courtyard and looks up. The sky is warmer from here, wild and endless. Calling him seaward. _Keep moving on._

He scuffs his heels in the dirt and does just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Some random notes about this. Originally there was some cad/caleb flavor text, but my read on caduceus is currently aro/ace, so I tweaked some things. Fjord's crush on Molly is reflected in canon, and his reaction to Molly's death is partly what inspired this fic. I liked the idea of him inheriting some bloodhunter traits when he absorbed Summer's Dance; whether they stick around or not is up to reader interpretation.


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